


and tell me that you're sorry too

by renlyne



Category: BBC Radio 1 RPF, One Direction (Band)
Genre: (It Should Be Noted That Bravery Is Just Another Word for Stupidity), Author Bravely Attempts To Shove The Years 2011-2018 Into 5k, Canon Compliant, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-12
Updated: 2017-10-12
Packaged: 2019-01-08 13:37:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12255453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/renlyne/pseuds/renlyne
Summary: In which Harry Styles and Nick Grimshaw talk all the time, and yet somehow never quite manage to say what they mean.





	and tell me that you're sorry too

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt: "Harry wrote both 'From the Dining Table' AND 'Meet Me in the Hallway' about Nick and Nick knew as soon as he heard them. They don't talk about it ... it's something they don't do. Why won't he ever be the first one to break?"
> 
> Please note that although all the scenes in this fic are grounded in real life events, I am in no way intending to reflect the actual reality of any characters mentioned. 
> 
> A massive thank you to [Writ](https://writsgrimmyblog.tumblr.com/) for taking the time to edit this and listening to me talk for ages about all the gryles feels it was stirring up <3 
> 
> (Also please note that the point of view switches back and forth, and there are time jumps throughout. It’s fairly evident from context, but I figure forewarned is forearmed.)

 

 

 

“Are you alright?”

“Am I…yeah, course. Why?”

“It’s just…you look a little. Dunno. Um…”

“Everything’s fine, Haz. Everything’s—it’s just, actually.” Nick’s pause stretched. “Sorry, it’s just—you don’t, you don’t _think so?_ Are you…What—”

Nick cut off and Harry finally noticed it, the article open on Nick’s laptop, sitting on the coffee table near where he was standing with his hand shoved into his hair, pulling on the end of his quiff.

 

_“Are you bisexual?” The GQ reporter asked, so latched onto the idea of unearthing a secret that evidently neither Harry’s expression nor tone of voice could convince him to let the subject drop._

_“Bisexual? Me? I…I don’t think so. I’m pretty sure I’m not.”_

 

Shit.

Harry licked his lips, “I…he just, he just asked me. Straight out, and I didn’t…I wasn’t expecting it, and I couldn’t just, y’know, do that. To everyone. So…” he trailed off.

“So you said you _didn’t think so?_ ”

Harry opened his mouth, closed it again, attempted to clear his throat. “I, uh…yes.” He took a breath, but Nick was still just staring at him. “It wasn’t…I didn’t mean. I didn’t say anything bad, or y’know. And he was, I think he was mainly using it to ask about Louis, who…he would have killed me, Grim. If I’d…he would have—”

Nick was shaking his head, “I don’t mean—obviously this idiot shouldn’t have been able to out you, he should never have asked, honestly what the fuck, but it’s just…you can just say _I don’t think so?_ And that’s—”

Nick cut off, and Harry stared, his stomach starting to tie up a bit even though he didn’t know exactly where this was going, because Nick was…he was angry. Harry wasn’t sure he’d ever heard Nick’s voice as taught before. Not like this.

“That’s the end of it then? No more follow ups, no insinuations that follow under every other question you get asked? No pedophelic hints dropped, hoping you snap and say something you’ll regret? You just _don’t think so_ and everyone nods, they're satisfied and you’re satisfied, and that’s it?”

“Grim—”

“I don’t—I don’t get that option. Do you understand that? I don’t get to _not think so_ , I have to think about it all the bloody time, and I have to have everyone else on the entire fucking planet thinking about it too, and sharing those lovely thoughts on twitter and, and shouted on the fucking street, and—You know we had to cut off a call the other day? _Live?_ On the fucking radio? Like, Jesus Christ, the rest of us don’t get the luxury of not thinking.”

Harry felt like there was something in his throat, struggled to speak around it in a voice that didn't make it obvious. “I know it’s…I know it’s shit. I—I understand, I—”

“You don’t.” Nick’s voice was flat, final.

“What?”

“You don’t understand. You’re so—you think you do, maybe, because people are always shoving signs in your face and tweeting at you and editing photos so it looks like you’re fucking your best friend, which, obviously that’s not great. It's shit, in its own right. But don’t tell me you understand. If it were true, you and Louis? People would be thrilled. Over the bloody moon. It’s not…you’re being inundated, but you’re not being attacked. It’s the rest of us. It’s me, it’s…it’s Eleanor fucking Caldor, whatever I may think of her personally, we’re the ones being attacked. You _understand_ —don’t joke. You don’t understand. You get to _not think so_ , so don’t tell me that you fucking understand.”

Harry bit his bottom lip, tried to force it steady. “Nick…”

“I can’t,” Harry watched as Nick ran a hand over his face, and finally registered just how _tired_ he looked. God, this was… “I don’t think I can do this, Haz.”

His voice wasn’t angry anymore. It was quieter, less sharp. It was…defeated, almost, which—impossibly—was worse.

“Do…” Harry swallowed hard, “this friendship?” His voice broke on the last word, and Nick looked up sharply, swore when he got a good look at Harry’s face.

He crossed the room in a couple strides, had his arms around Harry’s shoulders almost before Harry understood what was happening. “Shit, no. Haz, I’m sorry. Of course not. Of course I can do this friendship. I’ll always be able to do this friendship. I’ll still be doing this friendship when I’m old and my hair's all falling out and I’m yelling at people to turn down their music and get off my lawn.” Harry tried to steady his breathing, wrapped his arms around Nick in return and made a fist in the back of his t-shirt. “It’s just…whatever else we’ve been,” Nick’s arms tightened minutely. “I don’t think I can…keep doing that. It’s…you don’t. I don’t think you realise how _shit_ it’s been, and—that’s good. I don’t, I don’t want you to. Truly, I never want you to be able to understand, but…it’s too much, Haz. You’re asking me to,” he broke off, shook his head slightly. “It’s—you’re so important to me, you have no idea, but.” Harry could feel Nick swallow, “I have to be. I have to be important to me, too.”

Harry felt…small, was maybe the best way to describe it. He felt small. “You’re already important.” He pressed his words into Nick’s shoulder, refused to move an inch. “Nick, you’re so important.”

Silence.

Harry could feel Nick swallow, exhale a bit shakily. “I don’t think—I know we were talking about me coming to Japan, especially with Olly being there, how it would be—but I don’t, I can’t do it, Haz. I can’t…Can you imagine? What people would,” he shook his head. “I think we need to just…can we—let’s just be careful, yeah?”

There were a few seconds where all Harry could hear was his own breathing. “Course. Of course we’ll…yes. I’ll—yeah.” He would have agreed to just about anything right then, if it would have made Nick’s voice stop sounding like that. “We’ll, we’ll go to Japan, just…some other time. We’ll still, like, have our sushi and mochi and pocky and buy too many cat stickers, and…” Nick wasn’t laughing, and Harry felt his own face fall, was glad, in a way, that they still couldn’t see really each other. “We’ll…still go, yeah?” His voice was reedier than he would have liked by the end, his certainty becoming the worst kind of wavery question.

Nick didn’t respond, and Harry swallowed with a bit of difficulty.

Oh.

 

 

*

 

 

He shouldn’t have done it. He’d known, even as he was doing it, that he shouldn’t have done it, but he’d been drunk, and happy, and Nick had been drunk, and happy, and he hadn’t pushed Harry away.

Still.

Now there were pictures of Harry all but glued to Nick’s back, hugging him from behind, basically hanging off of him, following him into a cab. They were everywhere, was the thing—top story on the Mail’s website that morning—and Harry was scrolling through Nick’s twitter mentions, horror growing with every second.

Nick had obviously done the same, because when he stepped out of the bathroom he looked like he was biting his lip against…something, that he didn’t want Harry to see, and shit, goddamn it.

“Nick, I’m—I’m sorry, I didn’t…”

“It’s fine, Harry. I know you didn’t,” he cut off, took a short breath. “Don’t worry about it,” but his voice was tight, and he wouldn’t look Harry in the eye, blindly sorting clothes that he’d left in the corner of his room, picking things up before putting them down again, and not really accomplishing anything as far as Harry could tell.

“No, really, I’m—”

Nick cut him off, “Stop. You didn’t do anything wrong, stop apologising. Just…” Harry watched him push his hair away from his face, “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

He was right, and Harry believed that, and Nick seemed to believe it as well, and so no one was angry, and no one had done anything wrong.

And yet here they were all the same.

 

 

*

 

 

There weren't the same risks, over text. Far less chance of accidentally ruining Nick’s week, or month, or year, depending on how vicious and persistent that particular person—he hesitated to call them a fan, at that point—was.

It was smarter, safer.

They kept in touch, talked all the time, and Harry didn't even really miss it.

(He'd always been rather skilled at mentally repeating something so many times that he honestly began to believe it.)

 

 

*

 

 

They broke the rules, spectacularly, when Harry was twenty. They'd been drinking and laughing and celebrating a joint birthday months away from either of their actual birthdays, and when they fell into bed together, it wasn't to watch telly.

And it was lovely, of course, and Harry had to leave for America the following week, of course, and Nick was…Nick was just fine.

A bit baffled that he’d still let this kind of thing happen when he _knew_ the consequences, when he could already mentally compose the headlines and tweets and Instagram comments that must be flooding his accounts. More than that, when he knew that Harry was leaving, wasn't going to glance back at the wreckage in his wake. Not because he was cruel, but because he was twenty and because he was Harry—kind to a fault but so fucking oblivious sometimes, seeing the shitstorm that descended but at the same time not _seeing it_ , not really. Because Harry himself would be fine, and Nick was glad—honestly and truly glad—because better him than Harry.

So, a bit baffled, but Nick was just fine.

Of course.

 

 

*

 

 

“You will not _believe_ who Ian ran into today.”

“Hmmm?”

“Did you know he was back in town?”

And suddenly Nick’s absent mindedness was markedly more forced than it had been a second ago.

“I did, yeah.”

Aimee’s face said that the stiffening of every muscle in his body hadn’t escaped her. “He asked about you.”

Nick tried for casual, missed the mark by several continents, “Oh?”

“Ian said you were doing great. Happy, fulfilled, the whole nine yards.”

Nick let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. “Remind me to get him an extra good Christmas gift, yeah?”

Aimee looked like she had a lot more to say but, bless her, seemed to decide against it, just nodding and switching over to an anecdote about snapping the heel off her favourite shoe, which. Honestly, Nick didn’t deserve her. He’d clearly been a good person, in some other life.

 

 

*

 

 

LA was…it was wonderful, was the thing. There was one pap shot of them that made the rounds, but Harry was older now, a bit more aware of how things were going to be perceived, and he’d kept a very respectable, laddy distance.

Plus, it was LA. He was still a big fish, but—even if he hesitated to call it a bigger pond than London—there were a lot of other, bigger fish.

It’s not as though they could get through his gates, either, and that’s where they spent the majority of their time.

He still had to go to the odd meeting, no rest for the wicked, but then he’d get home to Nick either by himself or with friends of theirs, surrounded on one memorable occasion by a sea of takeaway containers—“you realise that you haven’t got any _pans_? God, you’re such a _teen_ ,” which, excuse him, Harry was firmly in his twenties—and it was. Lovely. Really truly straight out of a Hallmark card.

They watched movies, burned through a truly ridiculous number of scented candles, bought an obnoxious amount of salad at Whole Foods, and it was as though the past three years had never happened, was one for the books.

And then they hugged goodbye, made the kind of awkward promises to talk more that Harry once would never in his wildest dreams have been able to imagine making to Nick, of all people, and that was that.

They smiled at each other just a little too woodenly, laughed at some joke Nick made just a little too brightly, and then Nick got into the cab and Harry watched it disappear down the lane.

He was standing in the perfect weather—sunny, breezy, not too not, not too cold—on the steps of his perfect, newly renovated house, where he was living because the job, the lifestyle, everything about LA was just so _perfect_ , and for the first time possibly ever, Harry fiercely, deeply wanted to go home.

 

 

*

 

 

“Breakfast.”

“What?” Jeff asked, looking around almost as if Harry had been talking about food, which, in his defense, was fair enough, if you weren’t inside Harry’s head. Bit of a non-sequitur, but Jeff had asked earlier if he had any strong feelings on the release and promo, and Harry figured he’d waited long enough to make this seem well thought out, less like an idea that had occurred to him immediately that he absolutely refused to let go of.

“Sign of the Times. The first play. I want it on Breakfast.”

Jeff’s face didn’t really shift expressions, so it was a bit odd that Harry felt like he could read _do you really_ from it as clearly as if it had been literally spelled out.

There was a pause.

“Are you,” Jeff broke off, shook his head very slightly. “Right. Okay. It’s actually, it’s a really good move, audience wise. He’ll, um. He’ll do it, yeah?”

“Course he—and he wouldn’t be booking it anyway. It’d…it’d be Fiona, or Will or Liam or someone. And they wouldn’t, like, turn us down.”

“They,” Jeff just looked at him for a second, “they sure as hell would turn us down, if he—H, he’ll do it, yeah?”

“I just saw him, over Christmas. He was round at my mum’s, we had fun, he’ll…”

Jeff’s eyebrows twitched, and he opened his mouth, shut it again. “You…had fun? Or you _had fun_ , because H, I hate to break this to you, but I’ve seen this movie before. The ending is always remarkably similar, and involves a lot of unsent text messages and—”

“We’re not…we’re not fighting, we’re—”

“H, you’re never,” Jeff paused for a second, “you’re never fighting, not really.”

Harry bit his lip, hard enough that he almost drew blood. “It’s…it’ll be different, this time. It’ll be—I’m not, I’m here, this time. I’m…”

“It’s the end of February, H. You saw him at Christmas.”

“No, it’s—we’ve been, y’know, texting. Sometimes. Occasionally. And I was over there! In January, one night, we—we had dinner, and—it’s…we’re just busy, it’s…”

“It’s not different,” Jeff finished for him, after a second, and Harry swallowed.

“No, it, it will be. I’m in London, now. For good. I haven’t, like, officially mentioned it or anything, but,” and Harry would swear he saw Jeff raise his eyes heavenwards out of his peripheral vision, but he wasn’t fast enough to catch it, was just met with a straight stare when he looked over. “We’ll, y’know, sort it out. We’ll—” Harry shook his head, licked his lips. “He’ll do it, is the point. The interview. He’ll do it, if I ask him to.”

“Yes. He will. If you ask him to.”

“What do you—”

“A second ago I was calling Fiona, and they may take the piss on the radio, but this isn’t happening if I call Fiona Hanlon. You know it isn’t.”

Which.

Fair enough.

He looked at his phones where they were sitting on the table, both of them, filled with messages that he’d replied to, ones that he hadn’t, and, on the personal one, a string of one line text messages from Nick, all returned, but sometimes after a few days, where once even a few blank hours would have been unfathomable. The last message had taken almost eight hours to come back, and had just said _hahahah_.

Harry liked to think it was the missing _a_ at the end that had it sticking so fervently in his mind.

He closed his eyes briefly. “I know it’s…I know it’s me, who keeps leaving. But he must, he _knows_ …just once, like, he could be the one to—do you know the last time he was the one to start a conversation? Fucking months ago. _How’s Jamaica?_ With a capital H and a capital J and proper punctuation, which, he doesn’t…why would he suddenly learn how to use an apostrophe? For fuck’s sake, he doesn’t even have an apostrophe in his tattoo, c-a-n-t, written permanently on his skin, nothing in between, but then suddenly it’s _how-apostrophe-S is capital-J-Jamaica_ , and—”

He glanced up, and Jeff’s eyebrows were practically in his hairline. Harry couldn’t bring himself to go on. Jeff spoke after a minute, his tone some strange mix of incredulity and a smirk, “And let me guess. You never learn, you’ve been here before?”

Harry’s huffed laugh probably could have sounded happier, but at least it was real. “Something like that.”

Jeff was quiet for a minute. “We can do something else, H. We can go to, to Capitol, or, hell, we can go to America. LA, or New York, or— ”

“No.”

“No?”

“No, it has to be…I’ll call him, just,” Harry glanced around at the papers spread out around them on the table, watched a bead of condensation roll down the side of his water glass and pool onto the coaster. “Not from here.”

“Not from,” Jeff blinked, looked around, “your house, or…?”

Harry shook his head, “No, just…not from—this table. I know…life imitates art, and all that, but…no. Not,” he laughed, more than a little helplessly, “not today, Satan. Not today.” 

 

 

*

 

 

“Does SNL do general admission tickets? Or can you, like, bring guests?”

Harry froze with a piece of sushi halfway to his mouth. “What do you—yeah, I can, y’know, bring people. I think. I don’t see why I…but, you’re in Miami, aren’t you? With your mum?”

Nick cleared his throat slightly, “I dunno, I mean, yes, I am, but…I’ll already be in America. Thought I could just—pop up, for a few days at the end there. See the sights.”

“See the…” Harry felt a bit like he wasn’t processing what he was hearing, his brain both spinning ahead into logistics and frozen on the idea of Nick actually being there for his first solo show.

“Well,” Nick’s lips quirked slightly, “one sight in particular.”

Which.

Nick wasn’t done, “I know it’s not Japan, but,” he swallowed, “it’s, y’know, diverse. They’ll probably have cat stickers.”

And Harry suddenly felt a bit like he couldn’t breathe.

“Yeah. Yes. I’ll—yes.”

He was almost positive they had enough guest seats, but even if not, he’d figure it out.

Jeff and Glenne were young. They could stand.

 

 

*

 

 

“What’s your favourite song off the album?” Nick read out, recording an insta live that he’d decided was ill-advised all of twenty seconds in, not that that was stopping him, apparently, and—he meant to say Sign of the Times, he really did. He opened his mouth to say Sign of the Times, or Sweet Creature, or literally any song other than the first or last, and it wasn’t as though he was at all a stranger to presenting live, couldn’t very well blame it on any nerves in that regard.

“Uh, dining table. The dining table one.”

Which, well.

Well.

Alright then. 

 

 

*

 

 

“So, you didn’t say, ‘By the way, I’ve written this massive song for you?’”

Harry smirked, “No, I…”

“You don’t tell people.” Nick smirked too, but mostly to cover the slight mental hysteria that was resulting from his brain yelling at him to _change the fucking subject_ and his mouth very much not changing the fucking subject.

“No.”

“It’s just a surprise. So, someone could be listening today who’s not heard the album and say, ‘Hang on, that’s about me!’”

Not that he’d had, like, personal experience of this or anything.

Harry’s eyes flickered minutely. “Potentially.”

And there was—a moment. Where it felt like it was all laid bare, where their eyes caught and held, and…and then they both seemed to remember they were on the radio, and they laughed, and Nick was truly so impressed at how normal they both sounded when they continued on. How cleanly they’d both tucked that away.

To be fair though, it’s not as though either of them were short on practice.

 

 

*

 

 

“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday, dear Nicholas, happy birthday to youuuuu,” everyone was basically yelling, making them very popular at the restaurant, Nick was sure.

It wasn’t even his birthday yet, but if he wanted to celebrate a birthday week, no one was going to stop him.

“We started that way too high. If we just started at,” Harry Lambert was saying, humming a note about an octave lower than before, “life would be so much better.”

Nick was laughing, “That was still awful, let’s stick to fashion, yeah?”

“Hurtful, Grimmy. How rude.” Lou chimed in, shaking her head with a grin.

“To be fair, he’s not entirely wrong. We’re all terrible. Not a single person at this table has an ounce of vocal talent—oi! That hurt, you menace!”

Harry looked about as innocent as sin itself, smiling beatifically at his namesake, “Sorry, no idea what you mean. You should be careful with these table legs though, apparently it’s very easy to get your toe caught.”

“Least I’m not the one with new Gucci loafers. Speaking of,” and Nick did not like the curve of his mouth one bit, “who do I have to kill to receive a present like that?”

“For a start,” Harry sniffed, biting down on a smirk, “Nick has always appreciated my vocal talents, unlike others I could mention.”

Lou snorted, “For a start, indeed.”

“Okay!” Nick said loudly, cutting that right off. “So! Who wants cake?”

Everyone wanted cake.

Harry followed him home that night, after the party, and Nick didn’t really think much of it until Harry was—predictably—fast asleep by his side and stealing ninety percent of his duvet, the Simpsons playing in the background.

At which point he still didn’t think much of it, but it was more…deliberate, that time around.

 

 

*

 

 

“Nick,” someone was poking him, saying his name and drawing out the ‘i’ for ages. “Grim, wake up, I’ve got to—”

He opened his eyes, blinked blearily at the clock a few times, “Christ, Haz,” his voice was ridiculously gravelly, “it’s half six on a Sunday, what did I ever do to you?”

Harry snorted, “That’s practically a lie in, for you.” He yawned, “I just—I wanted to wake you, before I left. I know you don’t like…and I’ve got to run, soon. I’m—early breakfast. I’m meeting—”

He cut off a bit abruptly, and Nick could feel his mouth turning up in a sardonic smile, “Camille?”

Harry looked a bit shifty, and Nick almost wanted to laugh. He worked in celebrity gossip, for fuck’s sake, Harry had to know that he was very much not surprised by this turn of events. “Yeah, uh, yes.”

“Course, go on.” He waved a hand in the direction of the door, looked back over when Harry didn’t move. “She’s nice, Harry. I like her.”

Harry licked his lips, “Yeah, she’s…I like her too,” and Nick did laugh then, because really. Harry shook his head, joined in for a bit, laughing at himself, “Obviously. But it’s just…I didn’t know how to mention, but…it’s not—really a thing. She doesn’t want, she’s not in for anything serious, which is fine, of course, but I just…wanted to tell you. That it’s not…I’m not—”

“Haz, you don’t—have to explain anything. Everything’s good. Everything’s always been good. You don’t,” Nick took a breath, “owe me anything, or—”

“Course I don’t,” Harry broke off, made a frustrated noise in the back of his throat, though who it was directed towards, Nick couldn’t tell. “What if I…” he trailed off, ran a hand through his hair. “What if I wanted to. Owe you something, I mean.”

Nick took a second to breathe, “Haz…”

“If you don’t—If you don’t want to, that’s, it’s fine, I understand. But if it’s just…if it’s just, all the rest of it, me being gone and the papers and—that’s, y’know, that’s better, now. Not by, like, a lot,” Nick laughed a little helplessly at that, “but the coverage, it’s less…horrible, somehow. And I’m here. London. For good. I meant that, ages ago, on the radio. I’m here, and I’m not, like, leaving, any time soon. I’m—”

“You’re not—of course you are. You’re…you’re leaving in a month Haz, leaving for months, and then you’ll be back for a bit before leaving again, and—I don’t,” he swallowed, “begrudge you it, at all, literally not even a bit, it’s…it’s your favourite thing in the world, and you deserve it, and you’re Harry Styles. No one is born with the name Harry Styles and meant to be anywhere but jetting around the world, basking in adoration.” He tried to smile, couldn’t hold it for long. “But that, it doesn’t—fit. With a thirty three year old DJ with two dogs and wrinkles around his eyes. And that’s _fine_ , Haz, it’s truly—”

“It isn’t,” Harry’s voice was quiet. “It isn’t fine. Not to me.”

Harry couldn’t just _say_ things like that. Fuck.

“It’s—maybe not. But it…it is what it is.”

Harry’s phone rang just then, and he silenced it without even glancing down. He didn’t speak, though, just stayed sitting where he was, gaze locked onto Nick’s, looking a bit like he’d fallen out of a Michelangelo painting, snagged a white t-shirt, and landed in Nick’s bed. Christ.

“Okay,” Harry’s voice was almost a whisper, when he finally spoke, and out of nowhere Nick’s eyes started to sting.

“I’m not,” he had to stop, clear his throat. “I’m not saying no. It’s just—”

Harry reached over, wrapped himself around Nick, and Nick clung right back.

“Someday,” Harry mumbled into his shoulder, and Nick was sure Harry could feel him swallow from where his head was pressed into his throat.

“Yeah,” Nick croaked. “Someday.”

 

 

*

 

 

It was the cherry blossoms that did it, Nick thought. Harry had been in Tokyo before, and Japan had been just as much of a—a thing, back then, and he hadn’t picked up the phone. But it was May, this time, which made a difference somehow. Spring had well and truly sprung, and he was in Regent’s Park, and it was sunny.

And he was listening to his phone ring through.

“Nick?” Harry sounded wide awake, a bit wired, and Nick wondered how long he’d been offstage, how much adrenaline was still surging.

He took a couple breaths, swallowed, couldn’t think of how to start. “Hiya,” he eventually went with, softer than he’d intended.

Harry seemed to sense it, this strange mood he was in, and for a minute all Nick heard was his breathing, echoing down the line from however many thousand kilometres away. “Hi,” and now Harry sounded a bit hushed himself. “Uh, is everything…you’re good, yeah?”

Nick licked his lips. Was he? “Yeah, course, nothing’s…I just—miss you, I guess. I was walking just now, with Pig and Stinky, and their ball went way off course and they apparently couldn't be bothered, so of course I was all huffing and annoyed, stomping after it—you know, my average mood—but then when I went to get it there were all these flowers, cherry blossoms, and it just, _very_ pink bubble bath, quite an aesthetic, you would approve wholeheartedly, and I thought,” he stopped rather abruptly. “Dunno, just—I thought _Harry’s in Japan_ , and I’m, well, I’m…not. In Japan. Obviously. But I just…I wanted to tell you, that,” he cut himself off with a bit of helpless laughter, simultaneously unable to believe that he was actually letting all of this pour out of his mouth and unwilling to cut his improvised monologue short. “Haz…” a breath, and his voice sounded off when he continued, too soft, too—something. “I’m…I’m sorry too.”

Silence, before Harry's breath audibly caught, and Nick felt like he was having some sort of out-of-body experience, didn't think _feeling strange_ really covered it anymore.

“Maybe…” Harry trailed off, tone a bit disbelieving in a way that Nick recognized from his own voice a few seconds before. The quiet stretched, and Nick wasn't sure Harry was going to go on until he cleared his throat, still sounded a bit strangled. “Maybe we’ll work it out.”

Which.

Nick bit his lip, was ready with a quip about how he wasn't built for these kind of conversations, how they needed to tone it down before he broke out in hives whilst standing in the park, or something equally embarrassing.

Except…it was spring, and Harry was in Japan, and Nick was standing in a virtual sea of cherry blossoms.

“Well,” he started, impressed with how steady his voice was holding, “I suppose stranger things have happened.”

And the world didn't come crashing down, no fire or brimstone or horsemen of the apocalypse in sight.

So.

 _Maybe_ , Nick thought.

Maybe.

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
